


The More You Suffer, The More It Shows You Really Care

by Alcoholic_kangaroo



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 12:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15841125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_kangaroo
Summary: Mike is twenty-seven years old. He is too scared to leave his own apartment ninety-percent of the time. And he hasn't bathed in five days. But he can make his sister scream.





	The More You Suffer, The More It Shows You Really Care

Now I'll relate this a little bit  
That happens more than I'd like to admit  
Late at night she knocks on my door  
She's drunk again and looking to score

Offspring, Self Esteem

* * *

 

The world is floating in a haze. A backdrop of colors project against the inside of Mike's eyelids as his lips silently form the lyrics to a song, a song he doesn't even remember listening to, around a dry, heavy tongue. He isn't awake, but he isn't asleep and the light overhead burns through him. He feels parched, paralyzed, control of his body lost generations ago. His liver is poisoned, dying, spongy with artificial chemicals. He is Prometheus on a cotton stone, under an artificial sun.

He isn't aware of his semi state of consciousness at first. He hears the ringing in the distance but it is nothing to be concerned with. The tolling of the death bell for the doomed Titan as he dies once more at the claws of an eagle.

Except the bell is more of a merry jingle than a booming toll. And when he jolts forward, reaching for his side, there is no hole there. His diseased, dying live is still inside of him.

The clock on the side of his bed glows weakly maroon. One fifty-three. Outside the window the sky is pitch black, even the street lights asleep for the night.

The bell rings again and again, the jingle mocking him in its joyful obliviousness. Mike rolls out of bed and grabs blindly at a pile of clean clothes at the bottom of his bed. Clean, but unfolded, deposited there in a heap when he had needed the same green plastic basket to collect the towels out of the dryer several days ago. He steps into a pair of gray sweatpants, tugging them up over his bony hips, falling in the process and catching himself with one hand against the mattress. His wrist twinges as it twists but not enough to indicate any lasting problem. The bigger problem is the light.

Bright. Too bright. The glare of the bulb screams of the lateness of the hour. Only the shadows of a single bulb against windows that black show such an hour. As black as the unruly mess of pubic hair that peeks out over the band of him sweatpants as he lurches out of the bedroom, still half asleep. His hipbones stand out stark white in contrast and if it could possibly be anybody else at all at the door at this hour of night then he would have taken the extra five seconds to make sure his body was properly concealed. But only one person ever visits him this late at night.

“Did I wake you up?” Nancy Wheeler asks. She's wearing a tight black dress of some material that seems to shimmer like calm water under the sun. Much too short a dress for a weaker woman to be strolling around alone in at this hour of the night. The big gold hoop earrings Mike gave her as a Christmas present two years ago glint behind her silken, loose black curls. In her hands she's holding a pair of strappy black heels, her bare feet doubtlessly cold against the concrete floor of the dingy hallway outside Mike's apartment.

Her lipstick is slut red and smeared. Her eyes are red as well. Mike isn't sure if that is from lack of sleep or crying or pot. He's her usual supplier but she could have gotten it somewhere else.

“I don't know,” he answers her question to the best of his ability. “How was the date?”  
“How are any of my dates?” she asks with a small laugh. She's smiling but behind her red lips and white teeth a blackness is pouring out of her throat. “Let me in.”

Oh. Of course. How rude of Mike to leave his big sister standing in a hallway on the bad side of town at nearly two in the morning. A woman was raped on the floor above him just two weeks ago, right as she was getting off the elevator. As far as he knows she was never caught. He glances behind Nancy, at the grey-green walls, as if expecting some hulking shadow-man to appear at any moment and manhandle the woman in front of him. What if that had happened? What if she had been shoved up against the wall right next to her own little brother's apartment door? What if some pervert had forced her dress up, thrust his fingers inside her? His cock inside her? And she had been crying for him to help her, her fingers scrambling for the knob just out of reach? _Mike, protect me, help me._

Like she would ever ask such a thing from him. She's the big sister here, he's just the bratty younger sibling.

Not that she's really all that big anymore. He steps aside and she walks past him, her bare feet which in the past have been so tiny in his own long-fingered hands, padding softly on the linoleum until she reaches the shag carpeting of the living room. She is small. A slip of a thing, a specter of the looming figure of his childhood. As underweight and bony as Mike himself, the top of her head stops below his collarbone. The heels would've put her to his chin, but at his looming six foot two she would never come close to his eye.

She takes her spot on the rusty orange couch, the one she claimed when Mike first moved into this one bedroom apartment four years ago, and lays her head back against the padded back. Black hair inky and octopus-like, seeming to crawl behind her. Her eyes are already closed and Mike watches her, seeing the deep sigh more than hearing it. He traces the outline of her legs, the way her knees press together but the feet splay out in practiced modesty. The need to hide what is beneath that sinfully short skirt even here, in the presence of nobody but her baby brother. Her toes curl into the olive green shag carpet, pale and plump as little maggots.

Mike goes to his tiny kitchen and digs the wine out of the cupboard. He doesn't want to drink right now. His head is pounding and his mouth is full of cotton. But his sister doesn't like to drink alone. He pours two glasses of the Zinfandel and joins her on the couch. Her eyes are still closed but she knows he's there. Her eyelashes flutter like exhausted moths, and when the cushion dips beneath his own weight she turns to lay her head against his arm.

When they were younger she used to put her head on his shoulder. Not that often, they had never been especially affectionate as children, but occasionally. On a long car ride maybe, or that time she had strep throat and had needed somebody there to comfort her. But he's much too tall for that now, to provide a sympathetic shoulder. Her cheek is cool against his bicep.

Her eyes are still closed. Mike nudges the base of the wine glass against the slim white fingers, half-curled on her thigh, and the fingers wrap around the stem of the glass. He lays his own hand next to the fingers, comparing them in his mind. The same white skin but while she possesses beautiful hands with slim fingers and expertly manicured fingernails, Mike's own fingers are bony, chapped, nails bitten short.

Nancy raises the glass her lips as Mike watches and doesn't open her eyes again until she takes a small sip of it.

“Love you, Mike,” she tells him, looking at him, seeing him. Nobody else has seen Mike in a very long time. He feels naked.

There was a time last year when she had stopped speaking those three words. Wrong vineyard. But the place near his house had stopped carrying the brand she drank and he had assumed a Zin was a Zin. Except he couldn't stand to not hear those words so he had scoured the city until he had found a small liquor store across the street from a Toys R' Us that carried the sought after bottle with the blue and gold label.

“Love you, too,” he murmurs back. He rests his cheek against the top of her head, pressing his nose against her scalp. She smells like cigarette smoke and another man's cologne. He tilts his head to the side, sniffing subtly at the air, trying to tell if he can catch any other scents. There is no sign of arousal in the air. Whatever direction this date had taken he is sure she hasn't been touched tonight.

“Don't know why I keep trying,” she says after a long, still silence. Fear squeezes Mike's chest for a moment as he convinces himself that his sister is able to read minds. The pressure disappears from his upper arm. Mike sits up straighter, pulling one leg beneath himself and turning just a bit so he's facing Nancy. She turns to him as well, pulling her skirt up to expose her thighs. She crosses both legs beneath herself and he spots red under the canopy of the tight black fabric. “They're always a disappointment. Why are all men assholes, Mike?”

All men aren't assholes. Just the ones she chooses to date. Mike's met some of them. They're the stereotypical handsome businessmen with broad shoulders and tan faces powdered with three day old stubble. Successful, career-wise, but never as successful as Nancy. Always less intelligent than Nancy, always. Not worthy of his sister. But who is? Who could possibly be?

He wonders, sometimes, what Nancy tells them about him. They always try to talk down to him, even as they are forced to tilt their head up to look at him because none of the men are ever over six feet tall. Mike has never asked but he thinks his sister might prefer shorter men. Does she tell them that her little brother, who had once been so gifted, who had been the pride and joy of the Wheeler abode, is a college drop out? Does she tell them he lives in a tiny apartment on the east side and works from home? Do they imagine some nerd with pockmarked skin, wearing thick wide-framed glasses, hunched over a computer when she tells him he's a website designer who programs video games in his spare time? Do they assume he is incapable of carrying on a normal conversation like an ordinary person just because of his social anxiety?

“They're idiots,” Mike tells her, reassuring her to the best of his ability. “All men are idiots.” But he's never been very good at this, reassuring, making people feel safe and loved. Years later, after their break up, Will had all but confessed this was why he had left him. Oh, not in those exact words, but Mike got the gist of it. Will had left because he hadn't been able to reassure him properly that he was safe and loved. He hadn't been able to convince him that the Upside Down wouldn't come back for him. He hadn't been good enough for Will, just like he isn't good enough for Nancy. Not that anybody could be good enough for his sister. But who could he possibly be good enough for?

Maybe once, years ago, he would have been good enough for Will, at least. Before everything changed. Before a little girl appeared from nowhere and disappeared in the grip of a monster.

Mike's entire life has been nothing but shit since he was twelve years old. A string of psychiatrists, medications, and panic attacks.

“You're not an idiot,” Nancy says, and it's about the best compliment Mike can receive even though he knows he's not an idiot. He's smarter than Nancy, his IQ is higher, if official tests are anything to go by. _You're a genius, Mike, you have great things to look forward to. You're a genius, Mike, why are you going out of your way to ruin your life?_ It makes him feel warm inside when she tells him he's different than other men, that he's worth something to her. “Why can't I find a man like you?”

“You don't want a man like me,” Mike says, turning his head to one side. His face is warm and his hand curls into a fist on his thigh. “Nobody wants somebody who can barely bother to shower once a week.”

He can't stand to look at her. She's so much more than he is. Nancy is a success story. He's been to her house, a large manor outside of the city with its own duck pond and tennis court. She has even offered to let him live with her, in one of her half a dozen extra bedrooms. It had been tempting. Images of frequent late night encounters entering his head, even knowing as well as he does that these encounters should be stopped not increase. But he is an adult, damn it, and he can support himself. Even if he doesn't have a Bachelors, let alone a PhD. Even if he isn't an award winning journalist. Even if he hasn't had an article printed in _Time_.

He feels very heavy now. As if the gravity of the entire earth has doubled. His shoulders feel as if a large boulder lay across them. They ache terribly. It's a relief when Nancy reaches over and massages one of them with a familiar touch and he knows, he _knows_ , that she must see that invisible boulder there. Nancy always knows everything.

“Well, I don't have much choice now, do I?” Nancy asks, her voice bitter. She takes a drink from her wine and then sets it back down against her exposed thigh. There's a small line indented in her skin from pressing it there, her finger traces the little line. “Do you have any nice hacker friends looking for a sugar momma? Just make sure to mention she's barren or they'll sue for entrapment.”

Mike picks at what appears to be a barbecue sauce stain on the knee of his sweatpants. Maybe these ones weren't so clean after all. Did he just throw them on the clean pile last night before bed? Did he eat anything with barbecue sauce for dinner? Did he _eat_ dinner?

Nancy's fingers press harder into his shoulder, the nails digging in like fish hooks. She wants him to tell her that she's desirable, that she's worth more than any of the hacker friends he could possibly socialize with. But he never knows what to say when she brings up the subject of children. He feels like it's out of his place to even try to understand.

When Nancy was twenty-two she was impregnated by Jonathan Byers, the older brother of Mike's then current boyfriend Will Byers. It hadn't been planned, exactly, they were barely out of college, but Mike still recalls how overjoyed and excited she had been at the time. A baby! And that meant Mike would be an uncle!

Mike wanted to be an uncle almost as much as Nancy wanted to be a mother.

And Will. Fuck. Will. How excited he had looked when he had heard the news. How excited he had looked when Nancy and Jonathan had left that afternoon. They had fucked in the basement that night and it hadn't been the first time, not by a long shot, but it had felt like the first time. Because, holy shit, this meant they were family right? They were going to be uncles, they were going to be related for real. They would be like two Christmas ornaments hanging together on the same family tree.

That shouldn't have been exciting as it had been.

Mike had somehow forced three orgasms out of Will that night. It had left his boyfriend a shaky, sweaty mess. Sprawled out on his back, hair across his eyes, cum crusted in his fluffy brown pubes like artificial snow.

Mike took pictures. He still has them, tucked away inside of a copy of _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_. Will's favorite book. A present from him, offered with flushed cheeks and embarrassed stammering.

Mike has never read the book.

They had accompanied their older siblings shortly after the announcement; house-hunting. Jonathan brought them down the steps of a dozen different basements and discussed where the darkroom would go. Nancy brought them up to the airy rooms with the biggest, brightest windows and discussed where the crib would go. Will started designing the invitations for the baby shower. Mike started saving up for a stuffed bear bigger than his boyfriend.

If the baby was a girl they were going to name her Ellen. If it was a boy it was going to be Jonathan Junior.

Mike had been at the ultrasound the day they found it. Just the two of him, him and his big sister, both dressed in baby blue. It seems like fate now. He still remembers Nancy's face only moments before, that little pursed lip frown she wears when concentrating. Not a bad frown, an intrigued frown, the same frown Mike has noticed staring back at himself in the black computer screen when he's trying to program a particularly difficult part in whatever video he's currently absorbed in.

But he hadn't been frowning that day. Mike had been grinning stupidly because, well, he was going to be an uncle. And he was going to get to see the baby. And his sister had asked him to come along when Jonathan was away on work when she could have asked almost anybody else.

Nancy complained the gel was cold and squeezed Mike's hand. Her fingers felt small in Mike's hand, even smaller than Will's, who has thin, delicate, artistic fingers that moved with the grace and agility of a hummingbird.

And then the technician had made that “hmm” noise and her eyebrows had drawn in.

And then she had “hmm'ed” a couple more times before excusing herself to get the doctor.

And then, then...

Nancy had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer at twelve weeks pregnant. Too advanced to wait, too early for the baby to survive.

One afternoon in late July Nancy lost her child, her reproductive organs, and any hope of being a mother.

Eight months later she lost her fiancee.

“He couldn't take the crying,” Nancy had explained over the usual Easter ham. She had poked at her plate and Mike had poked at his, too selfish with his own misery to even care about his sister's plight. Will had broken up with him their first semester of college. Away in New York City, while studying art and promising Mike their distance would never harm their relationship, he had met a boy who “just got him.” Just got him! Like over a decade of friendship and five years of dating had meant nothing to him because some asshole in a beanie “just got him.”

Looking back at it now, Mike knows he was being melodramatic. He had a right to be sad about their breakup but he hadn't lost the ability to make another life. His genetic history hadn't came to a sudden halt. He had only lost the second love of his life.

When's the last time the Byers have even come up in discussion?

When's the last time they drove by any of those houses they had looked at with the darkroom basement and upstairs nurseries?

When's the lat time they drove by the hospital where the surgery had taken place?

When's the last time they went home to Indiana?

Mike never wants to go back there, too many bad memories. Eleven, the demogorgon, his father, Will, the baby.

Nancy never wants to go back there either. But she wanted Mike here. She loves Mike. That's why she had asked him to move here. That's why she had found him this apartment and paid his first six months rent.

Because she loves her little brother, her little brother who towers over her, and wants him nearby.

She tastes like tears and wine when she kisses him. Mike resists the urge to press forward, to try to deepen the kiss. Nancy doesn't like when he takes any initiative. Wine splashes on his bare chest and he's not sure which glass it sloshed from. Most likely his own, giving the tremble in his hands.

The smoke isn't just in her hair. It's in her mouth. Tobacco. Has she taken up smoking again? She promised she wouldn't. Mike wants to say something, he wants to pull away from her and beg her to not do it. For the sake of her lungs and his heart.

But if he stops this. If he pulls away. If he breaks the kiss. It'll be over. She'll gather her shoes and purse and be out the door and it will just be Mike and the black window and the single, glaring bulb once more.

He tries to ignore the nose-stinging acridness of the tobacco traces. He concentrates on the softness of her lips instead. The way her hair brushes against his face. Or is that his own hair? It's so hard to tell, it's so similar.

She palms him through the crotch of his sweatpants. It's disgusting. She's his sister! And she's so much better than this. Than him. She's beautiful with her liquid black eyes and smeared red mouth. She shouldn't be pawing at her pathetic little brother's unwashed crotch with only a pair of dirty cotton pants serving as a barrier.

But it's never stopped her before.

“You're hard,” she observes after a moment. She pulls back and he can feel the tilt of her head, the way her hair brushes his forehead. His eyes are still closed. “You want me?”

He nods. Of course he does. He always does.

She knows that. She knows how easy he is, how perverse. That's why she was so able to easily lure him out there.

Mike has had sex with exactly two people in his life. Will Byers, and his own sister. He started fucking Will at the age of fourteen and his sister at the age of nineteen.

Christmas break 1990. What a year that had been. Most joyous time of the year, right? And only two weeks after their father had been decapitated in an accident with his car and a truck full of two by fours. First snowfall of the year. Poor Nancy. Poor Holly. Poor everyone. There had been hesitant plans for Mike to visit some of his new college friends down in Florida; to spend Christmas with palm trees and daiquiris instead of snow and ham. The idea of running into Will had been too much at the time, he hadn't been ready to return to Indiana and the memories.

Not that it had mattered anyway. Will hadn't come home that year. Why return to the shitty little house with the faux wood panel he had once called his home when Europe was calling his name? _Will Byers, Will Byers, stroll our cobblestone streets, gaze at our magnificent castles_. Mike has until this day never met Will's douchebag boyfriend in the beanie (always in the beanie in his mind because that was the only picture Will has shown him) but he imagined him pronouncing his ex's name with an exaggerated and phony French accent, his voice deep and rolling like boiling water.

Skiing in the Alps. Like Will would even like skiing. Will had grown up white trash, the closest he ever got to a ski hill were the piles of snow left at the end of the road by the plows during winter. Filthy, dirt-speckled mounds that resembled a gallon of cookies and cream ice cream more than a proper slope. Still the image of Will laughing, that beautiful smile of his open as the sun sparkled on fresh powder, nearly drove Mike insane. He could already envision it in his mind. Will, on his stubby little legs, trudging through the snow into the lodge after an exhausting morning, his cheeks pink. Beanie boy waiting on him hand and foot as he collapsed tiredly in a lounge chair, the snow falling onto the floor around him. His hair would be wild, static-filled, standing up in all places. There would be mugs of steaming hot chocolate. Not the sneeze-inducing packets of powder that Mike had been sipping at the family table that winter of 1990, but the fancy authentic European stuff, as thick and slow as cold maple syrup.

Staring into his own mug of swirling brown water, watching the tiny marshmallow melt, Mike had been contemplating if they had even been there to begin with. Were the marshmallows a figment of his own imagination, just an illusion of swirling steam? Picking up his spoon, he had begun stirring the hot beverage in a clockwise motion, creating a small whirlpool in the middle of the mug. Lost in though, he wondered if Will was thinking of him? Was the boy he once loved, he still loved, wondering what he had lost on the other side of the ocean as well? Was he regretting his decision to putter away the holidays so far from home?

He was still twirling the heavy spoon, listening to the hollow clank of metal on ceramic, when Nancy had entered the kitchen wearing only her bathrobe, her mascara running down her face.

There had been a pint of ice cream, and a bottle of wine. Mike had been too young to drink still, legally, but Nancy asked him to join her. “I can't eat an entire pint of ice cream and drink an entire bottle of wine on my own, be a good little brother and join me.” And then the world had been spinning and Mike had spotted a glimpse of pale white thigh as his sister had adjusted her chair. He doesn't remember to this day how he had gotten to his knees, or why Nancy had wound her fingers in his hair. He doesn't know what had been going through his mind when he had pressed his lips against her inner thigh, nor does he remember the first time he had felt the tickle of her pubic hair against his nose. He does remember stumbling up the stairs, his head swimming, his heart in his throat, the taste of her on his lips and his cock hard in his pants.

The scene is playing out similarly today.

Nancy leads him into the bedroom by the drawstring of his sweats and again the world tilts as Mike tries to follow. After all these years he still isn't used to his awkward, gangly limbs. He bangs his shin against the coffee table on the way, hot pain pulsing alongside bone, but she doesn't slow down. If he doesn't keep up she'll let the gray strings slip through her fingers. The strings will drop, the soft thud of cloth on cloth will resound, and the night will come to a screeching halt.

So Mike puts up with the throbbing pain, with the spinning walls, and allows her to lead him to the bedroom like a well-trained puppy. She stops when she sees the mess on the bed and tells him to clean it off. He does so by grabbing hold of the sheets and pulling them to one side, upending all the clothes and comforter, and leaving a rumpled heap of fabric on the floor. The bare, beer-stained mattress looked gruesome under the bulb.

When she tells him to strip he does so eagerly, not uttering a word.

When she tells him to lay down on the bed, flat on his back, arms spread apart, he doesn't question her or complain.

When she takes his hand and oh so gently wraps one of his long, threadbare black socks around it he lays still, watching her, breath caught in his throat. He doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until she releases his arm and there's a exhale of oxygen from his lungs. It nearly startles him.

“Try to pull your arm free,” Nancy whispers, her lips touching the shell of his ear. Her breasts, as translucently white as any part of Mike's own body, swell out from the bust of her dress. Close enough that Mike could pull forward and bury his face in her cleavage, if he wanted to, which he desperately does. Instead, he pulls a few time with his left arm, testing the hold of the makeshift rope. When it is apparent he is firmly immobilized she nods in satisfaction and leans over him. Now her breasts truly are in his face, his nose sandwiched between them. She already has his right hand in hers but all he can concentrate on is the moist heat of his own breath in his face and the smell of his big sister's skin. Some sort of fancy perfume dabbed between her breasts, the same placement and scent since her second year of college. “Alright, now this one.”

Both arms are bound tightly above his head. The sight of his sister on top of him, pulling the shimmering dress off over her head, is a familiar one. No bra underneath. The straps would have showed and she's always been cursed, or blessed depending on who you ask, with very small breasts.

Nancy has always considered them a curse. How many times has she complained to him about the difficulty in finding clothes that flatter her figure? How often has she lamented about the otherwise perfect top “sagging” in the front?

Gazing up at the swell of her breasts from this angle, from below, the gentle curves look more than satisfactory to him. He wants nothing more than to suckle on one of her erect pink nipples, feeling her arms around his head, holding him close. But she is hunkered down on top of him, staring down into his eyes with a thoughtful, intense look on her face, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth. Mike cannot reach her unless she allows him to and, from past experience, she won't allow him until she's good and ready. If at all.

When she slides down onto his dick, as tight and wet as that winter of 1990, he clenches his eyes shut and wills away the need to come. His wrists burn as he reaches for her, wanting to grab her hips to still her. He needs a moment, he needs to get a hold of himself, but she's already grinding.

But this is how it's always been. Nancy in charge, Mike the helpless victim beneath her. Mike doesn't even know if he would know how to take the lead at this point. Not just with Nancy but with anybody. The last time he had taken sexual control over anybody had been with Will in November of 1989. The balance of power had been more equal between them. Sometimes Will had liked Mike to be forceful, to throw him on the bed and ravish him. Other times Will had laid Mike down and kissed every inch of his body with his plump, sweet lips.

There is nothing like that with Nancy. This is about her, not Mike, and she doesn't like being touched. Not by her brother, anyway. But Dustin..Dustin had told Mike otherwise.

Not that Dustin could possible have known what had happened over Christmas break of 1990. But when Dustin had told Mike about it he had felt sick to vomiting.

 _Don't get mad, but I slept with your sister_.

Steve's wedding, Dustin had been the best man. Just some woman that Mike never remembers the name of, an unremarkable lady with an unattractive gap between her two front teeth. Dustin had been a virgin still at that point, the summer of 1991, and Nancy had relieved him of that shame.

_I know you don't want to hear this, Mike, but your sister is a goddess in the bedroom._

What could he have possibly said? 'Oh yeah, I know. Did she stick a finger up your asshole, too? Her nails hurt.'

Mike had mostly been speechless. He should have shown more disgust, more anger. If he had, maybe Dustin would have been less likely to share the sordid details. Not just that time but a trend that spanned the next several years until his old friend had eventually found a real girlfriend and had cut it off with Nancy. But by then Mike had already heard so much.

_She loves to be thrown around, she asks me to call her my whore. It's super hot. Sorry, you probably didn't want to hear that, huh Mike?_

No Dustin, but not for the reason you'd think.

She rides Mike with the expertise and practice of a woman who knows how to please herself. She knows his cock so well that Mike has little need to do anything besides lie back and watch. But she stopped tying his ankles years ago but, as much as she doesn't want to be touched, she loves to be fucked. He digs his heels into the fuzz-laden mattress and thrusts up as she sinks down and Mike glows with pride as she screams in pleasure. Skin slaps, the bed squeaks.

Mike is twenty-seven years old. He is too scared to leave his own apartment ninety-percent of the time. And he hasn't bathed in five days.

But he can make his sister scream.

Her nails dig into his chest, pulling down and leaving streaks of pink and red in his pale skin. The pain is welcome, a nice distraction for how amazing his own sister's pulsing cunt feels around him as she cums.

And she always cums. Mike doesn't always, sometimes she'll jerk him off afterwards, sometimes she has him do it himself, sometimes she leaves him tied tight and untouched. Makes him lie in his own cooling sweat, staring at the ceiling as his erection slowly wilts. But no matter what, Nancy always has an orgasm.

That's the important part, really. That Mike can do that for her. That with how little else he has accomplished in this world, he has a dick that fits his sister's pussy so perfectly.

Her hands smell like her own cunt when she cuddles up to Mike afterwards. He is painfully hard. She touches his face, raking her fingers through his long, unruly curls. Her head is small and soft and sweet-smelling on his shoulder.

She tells him his hair is filthy.

She tells him his skin is greasy.

She tells him his breath is disgusting.

She tells him he needs to take a damn shower.

She tells him she loves him.


End file.
